THE MOUNTAIN LION<br >For eight sweet years I ambled in the pines<br > And struck the silly sheep and crunched their bones<br >The huddled herds were frightened of their shadows<br > Living was red and fat among the meadows<br >I slid between the soft flanks of the cattle<br > And hooked them with a claw as hard as metal<br >Wet were my jaws and damp my pizzle<br > Slick my pelt and streaked my muzzle<br >Nothing so good can last for ever<br > They tracked me lapping at the river<br >Three of the dogs I ripped to bits<br > Six bullets whacked me in the guts<br >They peeled my tousled hide and scooped it out<br > And gave the scavengers the marbled meat<br >The skin they took and draped around a post<br > And nailed it through the skull to hold it fast<br >My limbs spreadeagled sideways in derision<br > Spiked on the barbs to keep them in position<br >Even in death I stay a shape of wrath<br > A grinning terror strung beside the path<br >And though I shrivel in the noonday glare<br > While hot winds nibble at my mangy fur<br >My brown ghost holds my ancient realm as fast<br > As if my fangs had never turned to dust<br >
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